


Keeper of the Light

by dentigerous



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Adorable gay boys in love, Bipolar Ian, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Protective Mickey Milkovich, Recovery, my specialty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:23:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2623259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentigerous/pseuds/dentigerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey means it when he tells Fiona he'll take care of Ian. He's made it this far, he knows what it means to fight, and he's not going to let Ian go. Not now. Not ever. Mickey has done too much, held on too hard, and he refuses to give up on Ian.  </p><p>But it hurts, sometimes. When Ian doesn't smile like he used to, doesn't recognize a joke, doesn't respond to questions. Every time Mickey is reminded that Ian's not himself anymore, it tears him apart. </p><p>He can only hope he can hold on long enough to see the sun again.</p><p> </p><p>A continuation starting immediately after the S. 4 finale. ABANDONED!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Us. His family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first Shameless fic! I have the next five/six chapters written, and I hope to update twice a week. The M warning is for mental illnesses, sexual content, triggering language, and the fact that Gallavich isn't the healthiest relationship and some aspects are abusive. I'll add T/W before each chapter, if applicable. 
> 
> Also, here's a fanmix, if you're into that sort of thing. http://8tracks.com/linfin/i-can-take-care-of-him

Mickey didn’t glance up as he heard the knock, but he stood up, still reading over the Wikipedia article, mouthing the words he didn’t understand. He frowned, paused over a word, one hand on the back of the chair, and the knocking came again, more insistent.

“Keep your fuckin’ hair on!”

“Mickey, it’s freezing out here!”

Fiona. Of course Fiona would knock. He swallowed and left his chair out, walking over to the front door and opening it. She was standing there with Ian’s green duffel over her shoulder and Mickey took it off her shoulder, gesturing in.

“So, I’ve been reading about all this,” he said as he shut the door, going into the kitchen, not waiting to see if she was following him. 

“You can read?” Fiona was barely smiling as he looked back at her, mouth open in almost a sneer

“You're funny Gallagher, anyone tell you that?”

“Sorry,” Fiona shrugged, sitting down at the table and watching Mickey open up the duffel, pushing aside clothes and a few pairs of shoes. She watched him for a few seconds before taking a deep breath. 

“He needs to see a doctor.”

“He ain’t going to see no fuckin’ doctor,” Mickey muttered, still going through the clothing.

Fiona took another deep breath, keeping herself calm as she leaned forward. “We want the same thing, Mickey. We want Ian back.”

“Ian’s back, alright?” Micky said, closing up the duffel and leaning it by his chair. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, staring at the young woman across from him. 

“Is he out of bed?”

Mickey didn’t say anything. He pushed the back of his hand against his nose and looked to the side as Fiona kept talking.

“It’s been three days.”

“So?”

“So it’s serious, Mickey. He needs to see a doctor, get a prescription for something, he needs to see a psychotherapist—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Mickey cut her off, holding his hands up. “Ian doesn’t need no fucking psychotherapist. There’s nothing fucking wrong with him.”

“There is!” Fiona exclaimed, hands on the table. “You think that you’re the only one scared about this? I’m fucking terrified, okay? You think that this is something that he’ll just get over, it isn’t.”

Mickey chewed on the inside of his mouth, looking to the side again.

“He needs treatment,” she pleaded, eyes wide. 

“So we’ll treat him.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“You got money for therapy?” Mickey asked, looking back at her, eyebrows up. “You think that he’s going to get better staying at some fucking mental hospital?”

“Faster than he’ll get better here.”

“Bullshit,” Mickey sneered, shaking his head. “Fat fuckin’ chance, Gallagher.”

“How do you know, huh?” Fiona sat back, looking angry. “You a doctor now? You think you can just rub his back long enough and he’ll sit up asking for a coffee?”

“You got money stashed away for this sort of thing?” Mickey was almost yelling, but not quite. “Just got a couple grand stored for whenever one of your family gets a little sad?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.” Fiona hissed, eyes narrowed. 

“No, you listen,” Mickey stood up, leaning over the table to get closer to her. “I’m not a fuckin’ doctor. But I’m not fuckin’ stupid, and I’m not fuckin’ careless.”

“You have half an army’s arsenal in your goddamn house.” 

“In a fuckin’ gun safe now, you think I’d take that chance?”

Fiona’s surprise must have registered on her face because Mickey took another deep breath, let his head hang for a second, and then sat down again. He closed his eyes, running his hands over his face. 

“We’re not going to a doctor.” His voice was softer, muted by his fingers.

“So what are we going to do?” Fiona asked, her own tone even.

“Wait," he muttered, running his hands through his hair, lacing them behind his neck. “You and I both know we can’t afford real treatment. And the state run place is a real fuckin’ Arkham Asylum. You put him in there with real crazies and he’ll find a way to off himself in a day. He needs us, not some overworked, underpaid, piece of shit doctor at the clinic.”

“Us.”

Mickey stood up, picking up Ian’s bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He looked Fiona up and down and nodded once. “Us. His family.”

As he walked around Fiona, she stood and followed him. He got two steps up the stairs before she pulled on his arm. He stopped, staring straight ahead. 

“I know you care about him—” Mickey closed his eyes, set his jaw, counted down from ten, “but you’re not prepared for this. You have no idea.”

Mickey didn’t move for a few seconds. Her hand stayed still on his arm. 

“He needs help.”

“You done?” Mickey glanced over his shoulder. Fiona’s hand dropped as he continued up the stairs. 

“Mickey.” She sounded tired.

“I can handle it.” He looked back at her from the top of the stairs. Seeing her there in her too-large parka, beanie pulled low, he thought that she looked a lot older than her twenty two years. He frowned and looked to the side, his shoulders tense.

“Call if you need me, okay?”

He nodded.

“Lip will be by tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Mickey muttered, nostrils flaring. Did she not trust him? Did she think he was going to fuck up? This was Ian they were talking about. Mickey wasn’t taking any chances. 

“He’s going to bring you some more Lithium, and we’re giving you Lamictal as well.”

“What the fuck is that shit?”

“It’s for bipolar depression. Mood stabilizers.”

Mickey felt almost embarrassed by how little he knew. His lips curled up, almost exposing his upper teeth. At the bottom of the steps, Fiona took a step back, going towards the front door. 

“He needs a routine.”

“Fine.”

“Call if you need anything.”

Mickey didn’t respond, looking up at the ceiling instead of at Fiona.

“Call, okay? Open invite. Whenever you need us.”

He turned away and heard Fiona sigh. 

“Nobody can do this alone, Mickey!” She said, opening the door. Mickey was already standing in front of his door, his knuckles white around the duffel. He didn’t respond, and Fiona shut the door behind her. 

He put his forehead on the cardboard sign, eyes closed. If he kept his breathing quiet, shut off the voices in his head, pushed away the guilt and anger and deep-seated fear, he could almost hear Ian breathing in his bed.

He hadn’t even had a week.

Mickey raised his hand, spreading it on the door's surface, trying to feel Ian through the cheaply-made plasterboard. 

It should be easy. It should have been easier. He had come out, for fuck’s sake. He had announced it to the whole goddamn world and Ian had been there afterward. Dragged through the fucking rubble and Ian should have been his. That’s what it was all about.

Mickey had long ago realized that nothing would ever be easy for him. Even when he got what he wanted, it would never be easy. He shifted, took a step back, ran his hand over his hair. But he could handle it. Hardship had never stopped him before. 

He didn’t knock, just went in.

He hadn’t expected Ian to be doing pushups on the floor, but it hit him like a knee to the gut when he realized that the red head hadn’t moved since nine a.m., when Mickey had gotten up to take a piss. Ian lay on his side, facing the door, blanket pulled up past his nose. 

“Hey, chuckles,” Mickey muttered, sitting down on the bed and putting a hand on Ian’s head, rubbing his temple slowly with his thumb. No movement, no response. Mickey almost panicked before he saw the thin blanket move over his nose; an exhale.

“Your big sis was just over,” he continued, still watching Ian for any signs of recognition, interest, anything. “Kind of bossy, ain’t she?” He smiled a little, trying to get even a slap on the wrist.

“Told her I’d take care of you. Didn’t seem too happy. Think she’d like getting one less kid out of the house.”

Nothing. Mickey didn’t even know if Ian was really asleep. There was a flare of anger that shot through him, and his hand pressed against Ian’s head a little harder. Mickey closed his eyes, slid his hand down Ian’s neck, over his shoulder, down his arm.

“Man, I miss you.”

That came out. Those words came out of his mouth. He pulled his hand back, closed his eyes, ran his hands over his face and through his hair. Ian was right there, why the fuck did he miss him?

“I got your clothes.” No response, nothing. Mickey watched Ian carefully for another minute before licking his lips and trying again. 

“Dinner’s at seven.” No movement from Ian. Mickey looked up at the water-stained ceiling, anger surging through him again. Here he was, playing housewife to an invalid boyfriend and the asshole didn’t even have the decency to open his fucking eyes. Mickey stood and turned quickly, kicking the mattress. 

“Fuckin' starve!”

He slammed the door on the way out and stood in the hallway, breathing hard, eyes screwed tight. His back pressed against the door as he slid down to sit on the ground, head in his hands. 

He hadn’t even had a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, I haven't had anyone to beta read this, so if you're interested shoot me a message! Thanks everyone.


	2. "You fuckin' bearded moose,"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T/W for homophobic slurs, discussion of mental illness and death ideation. I think that the mental illness T/W applies for the entire work, but I'll continue to post it.

Fiona and Lip had said that Ian needed a routine (confirmed by his research on Wikipedia), so on day five, Mickey got out of bed at nine thirty and dragged Ian into the bathroom. He was worried for a second when he first woke Ian up that he'd get snapped at, but the redhead seemed unwilling to put up much of a fight.

Mckey took this as a good sign

“You smell like a whore’s armpit.”

“Nice,” Ian mumbled, with no intonation at all. He didn’t move as Mickey stripped him and helped him into the shower, shivered a little as the cold water hit his back but didn’t move at all. He blinked the water from his eyes and stood still, taking shallow breaths as the water heated up.

“Can’t even wash yourself, firecrotch?” Mickey joked, brushing his teeth as he watched Ian stand, motionless, under the stream of water.

Ian glanced over at Mickey, but didn’t say anything. He turned and found a bottle of rose petal-scented body wash Svetlana had left in his bathroom and started rubbing it into his hair.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Gallagher,” Mickey rolled his eyes, spat and rinsed, and took off his sweats and tee shirt, batting Ian’s hands away as he got into the small shower with him.

“I was doing it.”

“Yeah, and you’ll come out of here smelling like a fuckin’ ballerina, you know that?” Mickey grumbled, pulling the detachable shower head out of its rest and making a spinning gesture with his hand. “About face, soldier.”

Ian shuffled and Mickey started washing the body wash out of the boy’s hair, carding his fingers through the hair at the top of Ian’s scalp.

“Your fancy haircut’s looking ragged,” Mickey said, running his fingers along the edge of Ian’s undercut. The other boy shrugged.

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Mickey muttered, finally washing the over-ripe odor of flowers out of Ian’s hair. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Ian didn’t say much as Mickey got some of the two in one shampoo and conditioner into his hair, washed it out quickly. He turned around when Mickey told him to, barely smiled as Mickey joked about dropping the soap—(“That’s a real thing, for your information. Don’t do it. Almost had three fingers in me before I stood up.”)—but didn’t even move when Mickey tilted his head up and kissed him lightly.

Mickey’s jaw tensed as he pulled away, and he quickly got out of the shower, turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist. He jerked open the door, wrenching one of the screws halfway out of the shabby hinges.

_“There are a few symptoms you should know about.”_

_God, even when Lip was being earnest he still sounded like a shithead._

_“Like not getting out of bed for days? Suicidal thoughts? Check. Consider them noted.”_

_Lip tapped on the table with the orange prescription bottle and Mickey looked back up at him, eyebrows up._

_“He probably won’t want to eat. Make sure he eats.”_

_“Dude eats enough for an entire fuckin’ platoon, I dunno why I have to worry about that.”_

_“Because he’s not Ian right now, alright?” Lip shifted and took a deep breath, looking down. Mickey took a sip of his beer and Lip fumbled in his bag for a cigarette. After he had lit up he glanced back at Mickey._

_“Loss of appetite, irritability, no real concentration, seriously, absolutely no desire to do anything, including taking care of himself.”_

_“Alright, nothing I can’t handle.”_

_“That’s the easy bit.”_

_Micky swallowed, still watching Lip. His head was bent over the medication, but his eyebrows were up. He shook his head._

_“So what else?”_

_“He won’t really be able to make decisions. You’ll have to do that for him,” Lip explained, breathing smoke to the side. “His self esteem will be at zero. You think you felt like shit lying about who you were, Ian is going to feel ten times worse on a good day. For no reason.”_

_That was strange to Mickey. Hard for him to get his head around an Ian Gallagher that didn’t have confidence in who he was, who wouldn’t hold his head up. It seemed like an impossible stretch, Ian had always been unafraid of judgement, of stares. It was one of the reasons Mickey liked him._

_“Now, okay.” Lip ran his fingers over his temple, pushing his hair back. “This is personal, but you've probably had pretty healthy sex life going on."_

_“You’re right, that’s pretty fuckin’ personal.”_

_“Don’t get used to it,” Lip said, taking a drag from his cig and sitting back. “One of the symptoms of bipolar manic depression is sex drive at ‘E’. No pit stops in sight.”_

_Mickey rolled his eyes, sipping his drink. “I survived when he disappeared for months, I don’t need to fuck him to take care of him.”_

_“Just a warning, dude.” Lip finished his cigarette, snubbing it out on the ashtray Mickey pushed towards his hand. “Don’t get your hopes up, is all I’m saying.”_

Mickey didn’t slam the door behind him, had one hand in the knot of his towel, the other on the doorjamb. Fucking shit. Couldn’t even handle taking a shower with his boyfriend before he started blaming him for this. He took a deep breath, calmed down and turned back to Ian, who was watching him with his eyebrows up, completely shameless, not having made a move towards the last towel hanging on the bar.

“Alright, shithead, come on.” Mickey reached out for Ian’s forearm, leading him over the tub’s side and handing him the towel. “Dry off.”

Ian blinked at the towel and dutifully rubbed at his scalp, then down his arms and torso, over his crotch and legs. Micky tried his best not to get any ideas from just watching Ian dry himself, but he couldn’t help it. Ian may have turned off, but he sure as hell hadn’t.

“Jesus Christ, I bet you could be eighty and I’d still get hard thinking about you,” Mickey muttered, walking around Ian and pushing at his lower back, guiding him back into his room. “You’re a cat. A fuckin’ tabby cat and I’ve got to take care of you. That’s my job. Mickey Milkovich. Cat herder. I should get business cards”

“Meow.”

“Did you just meow at me, asshole? That’s probably the best thing I’ve heard all fuckin’ week, you fuckin’ shitlord.”

If Ian had been smiling, he wasn’t by the time they got into Mickey’s room. The shorter man stood in front of Ian expectantly, grinning up at him, but Ian didn’t move, just raised his eyebrows.

“What now?”

Mickey took a deep breath and glanced at his beat up alarm clock. Ten. Well that had been an adventure. What now really was the question, wasn’t it?

“Clothes. We’re going for a walk.”

"Is it cold?" Ian asked, watching Mickey walk around the room. The questions were definitely encouraging.

“That’s what scarves are for. Fags like us going out on walks.” Mickey glanced up at Ian from where he was crouched in front of his dresser. Nothing. No response. As if that word wasn’t loaded for both of them. He sighed through his nose and fished out his own clothes, pulling on his jeans and a tee shirt before grabbing a flannel.

“What do you want to wear, huh?”

“Dunno.”

“You’re going to end up in a pair of Mandy’s jeans if you keep that up,” Mickey muttered, going through Ian’s bag and pulling out a tough pair of khakis and a henley that had probably seen better years. He threw them at Ian.

“Put them on.”

The redhead glanced at Mickey, who raised his eyebrows in response.

“Now, pussycat, I ain’t got all day.”

While Ian pulled on his shirt Mickey passed him a hoodie, a scarf and his parka, emptied out Ian’s duffel onto the bed and found a beanie, handing it to him as well.

“All on, let’s go.”

Micky found his own hat and extra layers, grabbing Ian’s arm and dragging him out of the room. He had decided that the temptation of a bed was too great for Ian to resist, and the only cure was to remain as far away from one as possible.

Once they were out in the cold Ian seemed a little more alert, the blood in his cheeks making him look more alive than he had seemed in a week. Mickey grinned and elbowed him, starting to walk towards Hyde Park. For a few seconds Mickey didn’t hear anything. Not the crunch of footsteps or the big inhale Ian did before starting a run. It took every ounce of will Mickey had not to turn back for him, but eventually Ian followed and Mickey breathed again.

They didn’t talk much as they looked out on the lake. It was even colder here and Mickey glanced at Ian. The redhead’s nose was running into his scarf and he hadn’t even bothered to clean himself up.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, wipe your goddamn nose.” He turned, almost yanking Ian around, heading back through the neighborhood.

He looked at his watch again, twelve forty two. Not fucking bad. He took a few seconds to look around before running his hands rough his hair and pulling his hat down over his ears again. He glanced at Ian and smiled, and Ian looked almost startled.

“Are you mad at me?”

“For what?”

Ian looked down and rubbed the back of his hand under his nose and Mickey rolled his eyes. He was trying to hide his relief as he pulled at Ian’s parka again.

“Jesus, no. I’m not mad at you, come on.”

Mickey started down the sidewalk, hands pushed into his pockets. He glanced behind him and saw Ian staring at Lake Michigan. Mickey stopped, his eyes widened and he had a sudden image of Ian running out into the icy water and never surfacing, not even struggling. 

What would he look like, with blue lips and red hair, eyes frozen shut?

Mickey’s mouth went dry as he went back to Ian and pulled him down the sidewalk.

“Come on, kiddo. Ain’t got all day.”

He dragged him down two more blocks and kept a hand on his back for as long as he could stand the cold. At least it would be spring soon, and Mickey always liked warm weather better. Maybe that would help Ian too. He had remembered a news report last year that winter made people feel depressed. If that was true, spring must have the opposite effect.

They caught the train and got to The Alibi by one thirty, and Mickey leaned over the counter to grab a napkin, writing down all the times and activities that they had gone through. So far, not a bad routine.

Schedule. It’d be routine if they did it tomorrow.

“Hey, Kev, can I get a drink? Uh..” he glanced at Ian, who had sat down in a back corner booth, eyes on the one TV, face listless. “Just a Coke or something.”

“Sure, shortstop,” Kevin muttered, passing over the glass. “Surprised you got him out of the house.”

“Surprised you got your fat ass out of the house, you fuckin’ bearded moose.”

“Excuse me?”

Mickey made a face, picked up the Coke and walked over to Ian, putting the drink down in front of him.

“I gotta go deal with the girls,” he said, watching Ian as the other man continued to stare at the Television. “But I’m here, alright? If you need anything.”

Nothing. Radio silence.

“Hey, chuckles,” Mickey said, quieter, leaning in, “if you need anything, call me.” Ian turned his head to look at Mickey and nodded. He held his gaze for a few more seconds before turning back to the TV. Mickey stood up, ran his hands through his hair and clapped his hands, going back over to the bar.

“Time to get to work.”

Mickey smirked at Kev before heading upstairs. He had scavenged (stole) a couple space heaters, so at least it would be warmer. He turned them on, looked around and realized that if he wanted this space to be at all presentable he’d have to play maid for this place too. God. The perks of running a business.

It’s not like Mickey didn’t know how to clean; he simply prefered not to do it. However, with Sveltlana laid up with her dykey girlfriend and the girls complaining about the smell, Mickey decided maybe it was time for him to get a little more hands on with the business.

He smirked. Hands on with the business.

The girls were probably the ones who had first realized he was not sporting the typical red-blooded American male libido. He had never once asked for a handjob or a hummer in the middle of work, hadn’t ever taken one of the girls out back and smacked her around. Neither of these things made him a particularly good person, but maybe they made him a less deplorable boss.

Hell, he even got them heaters. They should be thanking him on bended knee. They were on their knees most of the time anyway.

He had just finished inexpertly mopping the floor when he decided to head downstairs. He checked his phone on the way down to the bar. Two thirty. If he was being honest with himself, that was probably probably the longest time he had spent cleaning in his life.

“A beer,” he said, going over to the bar, tapping his fingers on the counter.

“You smell like bleach and jizz,” Kevin complained, pouring a pilsner for Mickey and handing it over.

“This is my life now, Kevin,” Mickey explained, sipping his beer. “Bleaching blood and sucking cock.”

Kevin looked confused as Mickey turned around, going over to the corner where he had left Ian. He stopped after two steps, his eyes widening.

“Shit!”

“What?” Kevin looked up from polishing his glass.

Mickey turned back to the bar, almost slamming his beer down, “When did Ian leave, huh? Why didn’t you keep an eye on him?”

Kevin just shrugged, shaking his head.

"Didn't know he needed looking after."

“Jesus, you look like a fuckin’ asshole. Are you always this clueless or were you just born that way?” Mickey fished out his phone again, calling Ian, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Pick up, pick up—”

Nothing. He rang through to voicemail and cursed loudly, stuffing his phone in his pocket and pointing at Kevin on the way out of the bar.

“Upstairs opens at four! Don’t let the girls slack off just because I’m not here!”

Kevin raised the beer he had poured for Mickey a couple seconds before as the younger man practically ran down the stairs, coming out on the street and looking around, hoping he would spot Ian’s red hair turning a corner or coming out of a store.

Mickey’s mouth went dry as he stared around at the sparse crowd walking up and down the block, oblivious to the panic rising in the his throat. He turned towards the train and began to walk, fast at first, and then breaking out into a run.

It was a strange mixture of hope and fear that led him to take the train to Hyde Park, towards the semi-frozen lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A double-length chapter for today's update because it's my birthday and I'm passing it forward! This is definitely longer than usual, as my plots sometimes lack, but I have a plan to improve. Thanks for the sweet comments. XX
> 
> Updated every Wednesday and Saturday.


	3. "You should leave me alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W death mention.

Mickey didn’t know why he bothered trying to keep calm. He got off the train station and walked down to the sidewalk. After a few steps he glanced around and started to jog towards the lake. A minute later and he was running, pushing anyone in his way to the side. 

At the lake he stopped, eyes wide, breathing heavily as he looked around. He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his phone, flipping it open and calling Ian again. 

It rang through again and Mickey was tempted to chuck his phone into the lake. He growled a little and redialed a second time, hoping that if Ian didn’t pick up at least he’d be able to hear it. Nothing. The call wasn’t even cut short and screened to voicemail, it had just rang through. 

Looking around for a few minutes, Mickey swallowed and took a deep breath. He wasn’t here; the park benches were empty, there were a few people walking along the sidewalk, but it was too cold for any significant number of people to be visiting the lake. What was he going to do, stand watch over this single three block stretch of lake just on the off chance that Ian shows up?

He turned and started walking back to the train station, thinking that maybe he should contact Fiona or Lip. 

His expression instantly darkened and he scowled at a woman that barely brushed him on the platform. That was as stupid an idea as he’d ever had. They’d insist on taking Ian back with them. Not going to happen. 

Mickey took a deep breath and looked up at the flashing signs. He texted Kevin to tell him if Ian showed up again, just in case the man was as dumb as he looked. A few trains passed before Mickey got onto the L, taking it back to southside. He called Ian again and wasn’t as disappointed when he didn’t get an answer.

He stared at his hands, his leg bouncing as he waited for his stop.

He didn’t bother hiding it. He ran home. 

Nobody was in the house when he came in. Svetlana and Mandy had both left, his brothers were off causing general mayhem somewhere, and when he yelled for Ian, standing in the doorway, there was no response. 

He swallowed and shut the door carefully behind him. This didn’t mean much, did it? He walked up the stairs slowly and blinked at his open door. His heart jumped and he almost fell, scrambling the few feet towards his room. 

“Oh, fuck you.”

Ian was sitting on his bed, still in his parka. He didn’t even glance up when Mickey walked over and snatched the beanie from his hands. 

“What the hell, Gallagher?” Mickey pushed at Ian’s shoulder, but he didn’t look up. Mickey was breathing hard, red in the face, and Ian was still pale, his lips bloodless. The shorter man swallowed and then slowly got down on his knees, pushing Ian’s legs apart and forcing himself directly into Ian’s space. 

“Houdini, look at me when I’m talkin’ to you,” Mickey said, less angry, more intent, reaching up to put his hands on Ian’s face, tilting his head to meet his eyes. “Why’d you leave without telling me, huh?”

Ian frowned and without any warning, pushed Mickey’s chest with enough force to make the other man fall backwards. Mickey caught himself on his elbows, staring up up at Ian.

“What the fuck, man?”

“You’re not my mom!” Ian yelled, turning around and flopping on the bed, pulling his hood up. “Leave me alone!”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?” Mickey stood up, eyebrows up, watching Ian pull the blankets over his head. He ran his hand through his hair, watching his boyfriend act like a toddler, pulling another pillow from behind his head to cover his ears. 

Mickey blinked, watching Ian as the redhead stayed firmly underneath the covers, his breathing almost undetectable. This was ridiculous. There was no other word for the way that Ian was acting. Mickey took a deep breath, running his hands over his face and taking off his coat, already warm.

“You’re going to give yourself a heat stroke,” Mickey muttered, glancing at the bear cub sized lump under the duvet. He took off his sweater and sat down on the bed, turning to watch the area where Ian’s head would be. He knew that this, none of this was like Ian. If Mickey was being honest, Ian hadn’t been himself in a long time. 

He ran his hands over his face and turned to shut the door before sitting down on the bed. There was no movement from the other side as he pulled his boots off and he glanced over his shoulder, watching the lump of covers carefully.

“I’m not leaving.”

Mickey crawled over to Ian, peeling back the covers. He pushed the pillow off the bed and grabbed Ian’s parka, pulling him onto his back before sitting on his hips, straddling him. Ian looked up as the dark haired boy smirked, unzipping his coat.

“Fuck off, Mickey,” Ian said, but didn’t resist as Mickey maneuvered his arms out of his coat and unwound his scarf. Ian blinked and lay back, closing his eyes and being completely unhelpful as Mickey struggled with his sweater.

“I’m not leaving, Gallagher.” Mickey reached over, grabbing Ian’s wrists and pulling the sweater off his arms, throwing it behind him. “Neither are you.”

Ian didn’t respond, and Mickey grabbed his wrists, pulling them over Ian’s head, pinning them to the mattress. He wiggled a bit on Ian’s lap, a shit-eating grin still on his face.

“Let go,” Ian muttered, sounding tired. Mickey smirked and squeezed his wrists, settling down on Ian’s crotch, grinding down on him.

“Make me.”

No response. Ian usually rose to the challenge with a smirk and an arch of his back that meant he and Mickey were going to end up naked and face down against the mattress in five minutes. Mickey swallowed and pushed his ass down again, sliding his hands up to lace his fingers with Ian’s.

“Come on, sunshine, you’re not going to show me who’s boss?” Mickey teased, leaning down into Ian’s face again. 

The only thing that Ian did was frown a little, and Mickey waited a good twenty seconds before letting go of Ian’s hands and slowly lying down next to him. He didn’t know if what he was feeling was anger, or disappointment, or if he was just horny after not having sex for a week.

Ian’s hands stayed above his head and Mickey watched his Adam’s apple go up and down as he swallowed. 

“Yeah, okay tough guy.” 

He glanced at his watch and tried to squelch his rising disappointment that he had barely made it to four p.m. before Ian had found a way back into bed, presumably until the next morning.

“I’ll make dinner in a few hours.” He glanced at Ian, eyebrows up, “you know, if you’re up for spaghettios again.” 

Nothing. 

Shit, it was just going to be Ian with his pale-blue eyelids and his flaming hair and his white sheets forever, huh? Mickey felt tired himself, and he reached over to take Ian’s left wrist, pulling his arm around, turning at the same time and lying on his side, guiding Ian around so that the redhead’s arm was draped over his side. Ian didn’t seem to respond at all, but Mickey made sure he was pressed against Ian’s chest before he yanked the sheet over them.

“Go to sleep,” Mickey said as he quickly set his phone’s alarm to go off in an hour.

“Leave me alone.”

“Make me.” 

Nothing after that. Mickey took a deep breath and turned his face into the pillow, listening to Ian breathe against the back of his neck.

It took Mickey almost thirty minutes to fall asleep, but he didn’t let go of Ian’s wrist until he finally drifted off, turning onto his stomach. 

He wasn’t awake to feel it, but Ian’s hand started to move on his back, running up and down his ribs. Ian wouldn’t have been able to explain why he did it, but there was something comforting about feeling Mickey breathe underneath him. A reminder, an insistent in and out that wouldn’t leave. 

Ian swallowed, and he realized that he didn’t want Mickey to leave. He didn’t know what he wanted in particular, and he didn’t think that he could want anything anymore, but he knew that he didn’t want to live without the man beside him. It was grounding and terrifying that Mickey had become the tether in Ian’s life. 

Ian couldn’t even decide whether or not he wanted to get better, whether or not it was worth it. He didn’t have any desire to move, or eat, or slide his hand down down Mickey’s pants, but he knew one thing. He wouldn’t survive without Mickey. 

He swallowed again and blinked, falling asleep.

“You should leave me alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday! Thanks for all the positive comments and kudos, it definitely helps make writing easier. <3 Hope you enjoy this chapter.


	4. "We're trying to help"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warning for this chapter, have a happy Thanksgiving everyone!

_“It’s been a week.”_

_“Yeah, I know,” Mickey said, enunciating the words as though Lip was his inbred cousin, “I’ve been here the whole time, dipshit.”_

_He and Fiona were doing the dishes, he cleaned as she wiped and dried. Mickey hadn’t asked for her help, she had just stood up and picked up a cloth. He hadn’t protested and they were almost done with the cluttered sink._

_“We found a psychologist that will talk to him,” Lip said, leaning forward and snubbing out his cigarette._

_“Yeah? Found a good corner in O’Hare, huh?"_

_Fiona glanced at her brother, but didn’t say anything._

_“She’s friends with an old friend of Ian’s. Takes on a couple pro-bono psych cases a year.”_

_“Yeah? You telling me she and Ian’s grandpa fuckboy rubbed elbows and bam, now we’ve got professional help?”_

_Lip shrugged, looking between the two of them._

_“Yeah, pretty much,” he said, standing up and taking the plate from Fiona’s hands, opening a few cabinets before finding the right one. Mickey watched him out of the corner of his eye, feeling both distrustful and surprised._

_“How do we know this quack job isn’t going to fuck him up more?” Mickey asked, viciously attacking a large pot with scum stuck to the edges. “I’ve read about people getting more shit brought up in therapy, end up like, scarred for life.”_

_The siblings stayed quiet, the only noise the clinking of dishes that Lip put away. Fiona turned towards Mickey, setting her hip against the counter._

_“Right now, this is the best chance we’ve got.”_

_“The Lithium’s helping,” Mickey said quickly, defending his own ability to take care of Ian. “He took a shower the other day. Got dressed on his own. He’s making decisions.”_

_“Yeah?” Lip almost slammed a cabinet closed. “And does he make jokes? Has he got his personality back? Did he go for a run this morning or is he still alternating in between your bed and a booth at The Alibi?”_

_Mickey didn’t respond, passing the large pot over to Fiona and walking past the two of them, turning around the corner and heading up the stairs quickly. Lip gave him the finger as he brushed by him and Fiona slapped his shoulder, pushing the pot into his hands as she followed Mickey._

_“Mickey—”_

_“What? What the fuck do you want, huh?” Mickey didn’t even turn around, Fiona following him up the stairs and standing next to him, in front of his bedroom door._

_“We’re trying to help.”_

_Mickey took a deep breath and let it out, frowning at a place where the paint was chipping off._

_“We can just try it,” Fiona said, softly. She put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder and he tensed, but didn’t move. “For a little bit, alright? You can go with him to the office, wait for him. Lip or I can go with you.”_

_Mickey didn’t respond; he entered his room and went over to the familiar lump on his bed. He sat down and put a hand on Ian’s shoulder. He didn’t move for a few minutes, only rubbing his hand up and down Ian’s arm, trying to imagine the kind of person that would agree to take on a man like Ian for nothing. Swallowing, Mickey took a deep breath and glanced over at Fiona and Lip, who were still standing in the doorway._

_“Hey, buddy,” Mickey almost whispered, leaning down, “you got a visitor here.”_

_Fiona quickly walked around to the other side of the bed, smiling as she crouched down in front of Ian._

_“She’s got some news for you,” Mickey didn’t look up at Fiona, spoke quietly, almost nervous as his eyes darted from Ian’s hair down to where his chest would be, to his feet. “We’re going to get you some help.”_

_It was all the permission Fiona was going to get._

Two days later and Mickey sat in the office of some high-rise in uptown, getting dirty looks from people he assumed were patients of Dr. S. K. Rossi.

Ian had met her, shook her hand, followed her into the room and shut the door behind himself. It was a strange feeling in the air; finality and resignation. Mickey hadn’t allowed himself to hope that Ian would be ‘better’ after just talking to this doctor, especially considering that Ian had hardly talked at all.

After the fifth dirty glance from a middle-aged man with the entitlement of a Wall Street investment banker, Mickey finally got up and walked out of the office, pacing the hallway in front of the waiting room.

It was another thirty minutes before Ian finally walked out, accompanied by a tall, blond woman in jeans. She went over to Mickey and smiled, holding her hand out for him to shake.

“You must be Mickey Milkovich,” she said, smiling and shaking his hand firmly, surprising Mickey. “I’m Shannon Rossi.”

“Great. Congrats.”

Rossi smiled and looked over at Ian, who had sidled up behind Mickey, not saying anything.

“I just wanted to thank you for the kind of care you’ve been giving Ian. We had a chat and he wants you to know how much he appreciates it.”

Mickey froze, his jaw tense as Rossi smiled at him. It was practiced, benevolent, harmless. He wondered if that was the kind of smile that the patients saw or if it was reserved for the people that picked up the crazies from her office. He nodded once, jerkily, and she took a deep breath, looking back to Ian.

“Same time next week, Mister Gallagher?"

Ian muttered a ‘yes’ and Mickey turned his shoulder, putting a hand on his back, pushing him towards the elevator. He glanced back at the doctor who smiled, raising a hand before disappearing back into her office.

“Fuckin’ nutter,” Mickey muttered, keeping his hand on Ian’s back as the got into the elevator. As the doors closed Ian reached for Mickey’s hand and squeezed, holding it tightly against his side for a few seconds, until the door opened again. The gesture was surprising and unlike Ian, and Mickey was a little red, looking pointedly away from his boyfriend as they got to the lobby.

“Hey.”

Mickey looked over at Ian, eyebrows up. He hadn’t needed a parka today, instead he work a thin coat and a scarf.

“What’s up, Gallagher?”

“You want to get a burger?” Ian asked, putting his hands in his pockets, looking down at his scuffed shoes. “I’m kind of hungry.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows, grinned hugely, and then laughed, reaching over to squeeze Ian’s wrist.

“Yeah, man, come on. When have I ever turned down a burger?”

Ian didn’t smile, but he glanced up at Mickey and nodded, head tilting away from the direction of the train station they’d take back to the Milkovich household.

“This way.”

He wouldn’t tell Mickey that the doctor suggested taking his boyfriend out to lunch. She had said that it might make him feel better to do something nice for another person. Ian hadn’t felt like it was a needed detail, and he began to walk down the street to a part of the uptown area full of restaurants.

Was he happy? Ian glanced over. Mickey was smiling, hands stuffed into his pockets as they walked together, jostled by the afternoon crowds.  

Ian didn’t spend too long thinking about it. He wasn’t hungry. He was tired, exhausted by speaking about himself for almost an hour (or not speaking, as it were). There was nothing he genuinely wanted to do right now but go to sleep and wait for tomorrow, when Mickey would wake him up and push him out of bed for his shower.

It was strange that he looked forward to sleep just so he could wake up. That was an improvement, and he smiled to himself, watching his feet. A week ago he hadn’t wanted to wake up. Ian took a deep breath and stepped closer to Mickey, putting his fingers in Mickey’s jacket pocket, brushing them over Mickey’s palm for a few seconds before trying to hold his hand again.

He could practically feel Mickey tense up, but he didn’t move his hand, holding onto Mickey’s fist tighter as they walked together. Ian kept his hand in Mickey’s pocket the entire walk to the restaurant. Ian knew that it wasn’t what he wanted, but with MIckey everything had to be taken slowly. He swallowed, not looking up, watching his feet crunch through the melting snow.

At least he wanted to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh ian. saturday the boys get a little..frisky. get excited. :)


	5. "You're going to kill me, Gallagher"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explicit scene!

Mickey wouldn't say that the medication was working, but it had brought a little more life back into Ian. He didn’t spring out of bed every day for an eight mile run, but he woke up and walked around, ate breakfast, dressed himself.

Small victories.

They still hadn’t touched as often as Mickey would like, and he took a few personal sessions in the shower after Ian had left. Ian had gotten to be a more insistent hand-holder, and it hurt Mickey too much to pull away. Embarassing? Yeah, a bit. But it was Ian. He needed something to hold onto.

Usually Mickey woke Ian up, the older boy jerked awake by his alarm before he turned over to knee his boyfriend in the ribs. When Ian began kissing him, Mickey didn’t have the sense of mind to respond at first, fumbling in the half-dark, almost poking Ian in the eye before cupping his face and pulling him closer.

He didn’t ask questions, shaking the sleep from his limbs as he spread his legs, setting his feet on the mattress and slipping when he tried to push his hips up.

“This is why-” he muttered, leaning down and pulling the socks off his feet as Ian started kissing his neck, “we don’t wear socks to bed.”

“You’ve cold feet.”

Mickey didn’t respond, leaning up to kiss Ian again, sliding a leg over Ian’s hip and pulling him closer.

“Why you talkin’ when you could be sucking my dick, huh?” Mickey murmured, sleepy and smiling, hands around the back of Ian’s neck as he pushed his hips into Ian’s. It had been long enough, he had waited long enough. Had barely touched Ian for two weeks and here he was, grinding down onto him, using his teeth on Mickey’s neck.

Mickey slid his hands down Ian’s chest, pushing up his shirt. Ian instantly sat up and pulled his clothing off, Mickey turning to the side to tug off his own beaten up tank.

“Yeah, off,” Mickey muttered, lifting his hips and pushing down his pants and boxers, Ian turning over onto his back and kicking his own from his legs. Mickey laughed and swung a leg over Ian’s hips, straddling him and grinning.

Ian stared up at Mickey, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Mickey shifted forward and then rocked his ass back so Ian’s cock was sliding over the tops of his thighs. He grinned as Ian’s eyes closed, his head tilted back.

“That’s a nice look for you, sleepy head,” Mickey said, keeping a hand on Ian’s chest and leaning over to grab the lube out of the bedside cabinet. Ian catched his wrist and took the tube away from him, shifting a bit to sit up against the wall, Mickey sitting up over his thighs.

“I want to do it.”

Mickey doesn’t argue, but he leans forward to kiss Ian’s neck, one hand threaded into his hair, the other on his chest, holding himself up. The cap popped open, and Ian placed one long-fingered hand around Mickey’s ass, gripping him tight as he placed his other hand against his hole.

“So do it, come on,” Mickey gasped, pushing his hips back, pressing against Ian’s hand. “Ian, Jesus—”

He had forgotten in the two weeks since Ian had become depressed, how strong he really was. Mickey’s legs shook for a few seconds and he breathed hard against Ian’s neck as he adjusted to his fingers inside him. Not much foreplay before Ian stretched him enough to allow a third finger and Micky groaned, his nails digging into Ian’s shoulder.

“Oh, fuckin’ God,” Mickey moaned, happy to hear Ian’s heavy breathing, reaching down to start pumping Ian’s cock. It was as close to a religious experience as he’d ever had, his hand slick with the lube Ian had already put on his dick.

“You’re going to be loud,” Ian muttered, shifting again, leaving Mickey with his hands braced against the wall as he maneuvered around the man, crooking his fingers. Mickey made small gasping noises at the angle of Ian’s fingers, jerking back against his hand.

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, letting his head hang as Ian kneeled up behind him, “whatever you want.”

He gasped as Ian put both hands on his hips and thrust into him with almost no warning.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Mickey groaned, his cock slapping up against his stomach when Ian began to fuck him. The guy didn’t seem to have any pacing built into him, Mickey thought, because Ian went from three to one hundred overnight. Mickey’s arms were shaking against the wall as Ian pulled his ass back repeatedly, thrusting into him with an extra jut of his hips that made Mickey think he was seeing god.

They didn’t get fancy in bed, and Mickey hadn’t had sex in so long that it didn’t take long for him to push against the wall, climaxing over his pillows as Ian’s dick went deep into him. He was gasping for breath as Ian sped up, wrapping an arm around Mickey’s waist and pulling him up so Mickey’s back was against his chest.

Mickey made a loud noise, overly sensitive, the different angle making him weak in the knees as Ian continued to thrust into him, holding him up.

“Ian, Ian,” Mickey was gasping as Ian fucked into him, brushing against his prostate with every jerk of his hips.

“Louder,” Ian murmured into Mickey’s neck, leaning over his shoulder, breathing hard against his jaw, pushing into him slowly. It took most of Mickey’s concentration not to elbow Ian in the ribs, but he groaned, arching his back, eyes shut.

“Ian,” Mickey said, groaning again as Ian started to push into him faster, their bodies making slick, sloppy sounds as Ian held onto Mickey tightly.

“Ian!” Mickey blurted out, reaching behind his head to hold the back of Ian’s neck. “Oh, fuck, you’re so good,” he gasped, arching his back again as Ian’s breathing began to turn ragged.

“You feel so good,” Mickey almost whimpered as Ian pushed into him again, releasing Mickey and letting him fall onto the bed. It was impossible to predict how Ian was feeling and Mickey pushed his ass back into Ian again as the redhead finished, driving into Mickey, one hand on the back of his head, pushing him into the mattress.

Mickey loved it. Loved it rough, loved how cracked Ian’s breathing turned as he slid out of him, lying down on top of him. He had never told Ian how good he was to him, how full he felt after with the slick between his thighs and Ian leaking out of him.

He groaned, shifting onto his side to look at Ian, feeling more relaxed than he’d been in a long time. Ian was on his stomach, eyes closed, breathing hard. They were both spread out on the bed, and Mickey realized with a little jolt that Ian’s cheek was resting in some of his half-dried come. Mickey licked his lips, face flushed as he watched Ian move a little, smearing it over his cheek, down towards his lips.

“Jesus Christ.”

It was disgusting and he loved it. Mickey reached out and put his finger in the small pool, drawing it down towards Ian’s mouth. Ian didn’t even hesitate; he tilted his head up and without even looking, wrapped his lips around Mickey’s finger. Ian opened his eyes and he must have seen the look on Mickey’s face because he turned towards him, sucking on his finger and then opening his mouth for a second.

“You’re going to kill me, Gallagher,” Mickey managed to choke out, leaning forward, watching Ian slowly fellate his fingers. Jesus, he was sure that this shouldn’t be as attractive as it was.

He pulled his hand away and leaned in to kiss Ian hard, pulling himself over to the redhead. He slid an arm under Ian’s head, holding himself close against his boyfriend, kissing him intently, open mouthed.

Ian didn’t say much the rest of the day, but he smiled at Mickey’s jokes and put his arm around his shoulders after dinner, and even made a few comments about the movie Mickey turned on. Mickey felt happier and more optimistic than ever, finally thinking that maybe Ian had snapped out of it, was finally starting to get back to himself. He sipped his beer, smiling at the horrorshow on screen, and thought that maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as the other Gallaghers had made it out to be.

The next day, Ian didn’t get out of bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow i've been hella bad about updating. Because I'm a terrible person I'll be posting today, tomorrow and Saturday! I hope you enjoy the next few chapters, let me know what you think.


	6. "You're mine"

“Just, stay with him, okay? Just for the day.” Mickey was calling Fiona, sitting downstairs with a cup of burnt coffee.

“I got a lot on my plate too, Mick.”

“Yeah? Well he ain’t eatin’ you out of house and home, is he?” It wasn’t true; Ian hardly ate enough to keep himself healthy. It took near constant prodding to make sure he ate his burger, or pasta, or whatever campbell's soup Mandy heated up for them.

There was a sigh from the other end of the line and Mickey knew he had her. Fucking Gallaghers, do-gooders to the last of them. He took it back. Fuck Frank.

“I can be there in an hour.”

Mickey spread an arm, smiling. “Perfect. See you then.”

He hung up and put the phone down, running his hands over his face and through his hair, lacing them behind his neck. After the morning sex three days ago, he had really thought Ian was going to get better. Turned a corner or something. Maybe the double dose of mood stabilizers had brought him back just long enough to get him off.

In all fairness, that sounded like something Ian might even plan for. In case of emergency horny feelings, make sure you have a needy, cockslut of a boyfriend ready to take it and ask for round two in an hour. Mickey almost groaned. He just wanted Ian's dick in him. Was it so much to ask for?

Mickey hadn’t told Lip or Fiona about what had happened, hoping to make it through a second day with a new, reinvigorated Ian before letting on that there was improvement. Fat chance. Mickey found a cigarette and lit up, sitting back. Ian had practically yelled himself hoarse telling him to fuck off yesterday morning.

What a perfect way to start the day. Mickey let the cigarette hang from his lips as he went back upstairs and into his room, not speaking as he changed. Ian didn’t even move, didn’t respond at all, and when Mickey put the cigarette out and walked around to crouch in front of him, Ian’s eyes didn’t even move.

“Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath and watching Ian’s face. The redhead’s eyes were fixed on a point slightly above the radiator; maybe a tear in one of the posters was capture Ian’s full attention.

“Ian?” Mickey reached out and pushed a hand through Ian’s hair. The other man glared at Mickey and then turned his face into the pillow. Mickey’s anger flared up again and he swallowed, standing up, his jaw tense. He closed his eyes and then looked at the ceiling.

“Fiona’s coming over. I’m headed to the Alibi.”

No response. Mickey reached down to squeeze Ian’s shoulder before walking around him, heading out of the room.

“Why do you let me stay?” Ian’s voice was accusing, and Mickey turned, surprised. The redhead was sitting up, pale but anger flushed across his cheeks.

“What?” Mickey almost laughed, glancing around. “This a trick question, sparky?”

“You don’t owe me, you don’t need me, you’re just taking care of me? Acting like this is normal? Fuck you!”

Mickey frowned, shoulders tense, watching Ian.

“Are you angry with me right now?” Mickey asked, confused. “Seriously, Gallagher?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Ian almost spat out, staring at Mickey. “What do you think I’m going to do?”

Mickey shrugged, eyebrows up. “Honestly, I don’t fuckin’ know.” He swallowed, turning to face Ian, taking his hand off the door. “I don’t know. Does that make you feel better, huh? I don’t fuckin’ know what’s going to happen, I don’t know what you’re going to do in an hour, or tomorrow, or in a month. For all I fuckin’ know nothing could happen,” he said, watching Ian intently. “That what you want to hear, fucker? That I’m just as fuckin’ clueless and lost and…”

Mickey stopped, licking his lips and looking down at the floor. Lost and what? Lost and terrified, and alone, and scared, and hurt, and angry, and stupid.

He shook his head, glancing to the side and then back up at Ian, who was staring at his hands in his lap.

“Fiona’s going to be here in about thirty minutes. You want a shower or you want to get to sleep again?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing either.”

“Bingo, asshole. You want a shower or what?”

Ian shook his head, head bowed, staring at his hands. Mickey watched him, his eyes widening as he realized how incredibly angry Ian made him. How indifferent Ian was, how volatile Ian’s moods were. He swallowed, his hands clenching by his sides, and fought down the urge to throw something, to yell, to jump across the bed and punch Ian hard, just to see a reaction.

 

He wanted something, anything. It wasn’t fair that Ian could go from screaming at him to slowly sinking down again.  

It was a fucking disaster. He was a disaster.

Mickey ran his hands over his face, taking a deep breath and looking up at the ceiling. He had to keep reminding himself over and over that this wasn’t Ians fault. It wasn’t. Ian didn’t ask for this, he didn’t want this. It was unfair to blame him for what was happening, but Mickey couldn’t help it. He wanted to be with the man he fell in love with. He wanted him back.

After a few minutes, Mickey crawled over the bed to sit in front of Ian, crossing his legs, watching the redhead carefully. He reached out and pushed at Ian’s chest, and his hand was batted away.

“Stop it.”

“Look at me.”

Ian frowned, but he glanced up at Mickey for a second before looking down again.

Mickey shoved at his chest again and Ian didn’t respond this time.

“Look at me, chuckles.”

Ian took a deep breath, the bed creaking as he shifted and locked eyes with Mickey.

The older man blinked, turned a little red, realized he had almost forgotten how stupid Ian’s eyes were. The colors seemed to shift like the weather and Mickey took a deep breath, putting his hand on Ian’s neck.

“You’re here because I want you to be here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re mine, alright?” Mickey swallowed, his eyes flicking over Ian’s face. “You’re mine. I’m yours. You’re stuck with me.”

Ian blinked a few times and nodded, still watching Mickey unflinchingly.

It took a few seconds for Mickey to realize that Ian was getting upset, and he set his own jaw and shifted forwards again, leaning in to press his forehead against Ian’s.

“I want you to say it, alright?” Mickey whispered, digging his nails into Ian’s neck. “Say that you’re mine.”

“You’re mine,” Ian repeated, breathily, still on the verge of desperate tears.

It wasn’t what Mickey was expecting, he had wanted Ian to reaffirm his own feelings, not cement Mickey’s place. It raged against everything in Mickey’s mind, the idea that he was being kept captive, that he belonged to someone, before he realized that was exactly what Ian must be going through. He was being held hostage by his own mind, trapped in bed, in moods, in a swinging pendulum heart that wouldn’t stop.

Mickey nodded, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath, letting go. He had to let go.

“I’m yours, Ian Gallagher. You better fuckin’ like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two of the three part posting spree!


	7. “Maybe he’ll surprise you”

_“I think that what you’re doing for Ian is very admirable.”_

_Mickey couldn’t even look at Dr. Rossi. He glanced around her tastefully decorated, but casual, office and noted that her desk faced the wall. He frowned and took a deep breath, stuffing his hands in his pockets as the psychologist sat down on the comfortable couch._

_“Admirable, and maybe a little pig headed.”_

_Mickey glared at her, and Rossi held up her hands, smiling a little. Her blond hair was frizzy and untamed, held back from her face with a few pins._

_“That doesn’t mean that you’re not doing a good job!” She said, reassuringly, “just that maybe, you’re not the best person for the job.”_

_“I’m the only person for the job,” Mickey sneered, taking a step back, towards the door, “sorry if you disagree, Tinkerbell, but I’m not about to turn him over to a fuckin’ hospital so he can rot in a Psych Ward. Not happening.”_

_Rossi was still smiling, and Mickey was starting to doubt that her facial muscles could even force her to frown if she tried. Mickey set his jaw, still staring at her._

_“Alright.”_

_“Alright? So what, that’s it? What the fuck was that, huh? Were you trying to lecture me or did you just want to call me in to tell me what a shit job I’m doing?”_

_“Why do you think everyone’s out to get you Mickey?”_

_Mickey rolled his eyes, shaking his head, “Oh, no you don’t. I’m not one of your wackjobs you can just pry open.”_

_“You need to challenge him,” Rossi said calmly, her eyes never faltering from Mickey’s face. “Engage with him, push him outside of his comfort zone. Take him somewhere he’s never been.”_

_“Sounds great, Doc, but he hardly gets out of bed.”_

_“Just try it, Mickey,” Rossi said, smiling and nodding at him. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”_

Mickey opened the doors to Adler Planetarium, holding them open as Ian walked through, looking around.

“I’ve never been here,” Ian muttered, looking up, disinterested.

“I have.”

Ian glanced over at Mickey, surprised. Mickey smiled and shrugged, putting a hand on Ian’s back and leading him through the Rainbow Lobby to the front desk

“Yeah, School field trip,”  Mickey explained, fishing for his wallet and paying the entry fee, “I thought we were going into space. Ten year old Mick had a very loose understanding of a planetarium,” He smiled a little, passing the ticket to Ian and leading him around the circular building.

“Aw,” Ian teased,  still not smiling, not looking around at the exhibits and signs that pointed through the oldest planetarium in the United States. Mickey had thought that this would have been a treat for the redhead, but Ian didn’t seem any more interested in the planetarium’s exhibits than he did in the shower curtains.

Mickey took a deep breath, tugging on Ian’s jacket, leading him through the Shoot for the Moon exhibit and the Gemini XII room. Nothing. There was hardly any reaction as they saw moonrocks, to-scale compositions of the universe, recreated models of space station interiors.

“What do you think?”

“It’s cool.”

Mickey let out the breath he had been holding, but he smiled and nodded, glancing around before pulling Ian up the stairs towards the third level.

“Yeah, yeah it is, right?” Mickey seemed relieved and he led Ian to the line that was starting to form in front of the Sky Theater. There was a group of school-aged kids and a few older couples, but he and Ian were the only people who looked like truants.

Mickey passed his tickets to the attendant and pulled Ian into the planetarium, edging away from the small crowd and taking a seat near the wall’s edge, sitting down.

“We’re watching a show?”

“No, dipshit, we’re here for the popcorn.”

One of the teachers glared over at Mickey and he responded with a sneer and a middle finger. Ian actually laughed, reaching over to pull Mickey’s hand down.

“Stop it.”

Mickey looked over at Ian, watching him as the lights dimmed and their seats fell back slowly. He sighed and turned his face upwards, not pulling away as Ian laced his fingers through his own, holding his hand lightly. He smiled as the presentation started, the skies and galaxies passing overhead, the calming voice of the narrator explaining the sizes, speeds, ages of all the stars and presented visible star clusters.

They stayed quiet in the back of the theater as the lights rose and a polite applause came from the group of students huddled around the projector. A few minutes passed before Mickey slowly pulled his hand away from Ian’s, standing up.

He stretched, making a grunting noise, and he looked down at Ian.

“Ready to go?”

Ian stood up, faced down Mickey, and Mickey’s heart sped up a few beats. He knew that expression. This was Ian when he was defiant, demanding. When he asked for an admission, when he had asked Mickey to blow off his wedding, when he had wanted Mickey to just say something, just say it.

“Hold my hand.”

“What?” Mickey laughed, glancing around. There was a janitor making his way through the seats, but nobody else in the theater. “No, man, come on.”

“No.”

“No?” Mickey raise his eyebrows, standing up a little straighter. “What do you mean no?”

“You want me to come with you, hold my hand.”

“This is fuckin’ stupid. Where you going to go, huh, tough guy?” Mickey asked, tilting his head to the side, challenging Ian. The redhead frowned, shrugged.

“I won’t go with you,” he said, watching Mickey, voice hard.

“What’s that mean? You going to run home to Fiona?”

“I’ll go wherever I want to.”

Mickey watched his face, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Ian was reckless simply because he was a Gallagher. It probably didn’t help that Rossi was still trying different kinds of pills, meaning that his meds and the dosage were still in flux. It was fear, he realized. The feeling in the pit of his stomach was a deep-seated, unshakeable fear that Ian wouldn’t be in his life anymore, wouldn’t be sleeping in his bed, wouldn’t eat his chewy scrambled eggs or shower in his bathroom

“Fuck you,” Mickey muttered, reaching forward suddenly and grabbing Ian’s hand, “this is blackmail."

“Effective blackmail.” Ian said, almost proudly as Mickey led him back through the planetarium.

“You sound way too smug right now, alright, asshole?” Mickey growled as they walked outside. He took a deep breath and let go of Ian’s hand, glancing around. “Happy?”

“No.” Ian said, frowning, glaring at Mickey. “Hold my fucking hand if you want to take me anywhere.”

“Ian, come on.” Mickey turned toward him, spreading his hands imploringly. “You made your point, we don’t have to be all over each other all the time. Everyone at the bar knows, your family knows, my family knows. What the fuck are you doing huh? What are you trying to prove?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” Ian stated evenly, still watching Mickey carefully. “I want you to hold my hand.”

Ian took a step forward, looking down at Mickey, his lips pressed into a thin line. Mickey swallowed and glanced around before reaching for Ian’s hand again.

“You’re a dick.”

Ian smirked and leaned forwards, kissing Mickey quickly before standing straight up again. Mickey’s eyes widened and he wouldn't admit that he got a little red before he looked away from Ian. He chewed his lip, as he began to walk, holding Ian’s hand tightly, trying to think of something to say.

“You’re a dick, you know that?” Mickey muttered, thoroughly annoyed as the two of them began to walk to the train station.

Ian smiled, “I’ve got a dick you’d like to know.”

“Wow, Gallagher, that was a good one.” Mickey grinned, squeezing Ian’s hand. “Your daddy teach you that?”

They got a few stares and murmurs, but nothing comparable to the abuse that Mickey was expecting. He let out a breath on the train and tried to pull his hand out of Ian’s grasp, but the other man tightened his grip.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Mickey groaned, hanging his head, “come on, fucker, you can’t be serious.”

“Shut up.”

Mickey sighed, rubbing his temple with his other hand. God, he thought, it was going to be a long ride on the L train back to south side. He glanced at Ian, who was sitting next to him, looking entirely too smug and self-satisfied, a resting smirk on his face as the train rattled.  

Yeah, alright. Mickey sat back glaring at a couple of people who were obviously whispering about them, eyes glancing off their hands and the letters tattooed on his knuckles. Maybe it was worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now we resume our normal wed/sat posting schedule. i'll be better about remembering in the future. xxenjoy!


	8. "It may not be up to you"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again i have failed to keep up. here's a longer chapter 8. i just realized some gross errors in chp 5 maybe i'll edit it. woops! hope this one's a better read!!

“You sure you’re doing okay?”

Mickey glared at Lip, wiping down the counter from behind the bar. Kevin had to step out and he trusted Mickey enough to let him watch the taps. He passed a pilsner over to the older Gallagher, glancing at the rest of the Gallaghers crammed in a corner booth with Ian, playing some kind of card game.

“Yeah, man,” Mickey ducked to take a sip of his own beer, “just fine.”

“You look like shit,” Lip said, taking a sip of his beer and passing a five over the bar.

“Well at least I wasn’t born with your face,” he sneered. “All the under eye bruising is just superficial.”

“I’m not the one taking care of a sick kid.”

Mickey leaned over, glaring at Lip, putting his elbows onto the counter, lip curled over his teeth. He looked predatory, but Lip didn’t even bat an eye, sipping his beer and glancing over at Ian as Mickey hissed, “He’s getting better.”

Lip shook his head, looking back at Mickey. 

“You’re delusional, Milky,” he muttered, sipping his beer and pulling out a pack of smokes, offering one to Mickey after putting one in his mouth. “The kid’s still as blank as he was three weeks ago, and nothing’s changing.”

“His meds are helping, alright?” Mickey sneered, taking a cig and lighting it, snatching the lighter out of Lip’s hand as soon as he held it out to him.

“They’re helping, but he’s not getting real treatment—”

“He’s not leaving!” 

The almost-empty bar went quiet for half a second before a man came stumbling downstairs, and Mickey glared at him before turning back to Lip. The dark-haired man ran his hands over the edge of the counter, turning away from Lip and going to serve Harry, down at the end of the bar. He came back, poured himself a shot and threw it back before looking at the Gallagher across from him. 

“He’s not leaving,” he repeated, eyebrows up as he stared daggers into Lip, “we’re doing fine, and we’re going to do better.”

Lip glanced back at where Ian was just barely going through the motions of go fish with his younger siblings. None of them looked particularly happy, and even Fiona’s smile was obviously forced. He shook his head, picking at the wearing veneer of the bar as he took a puff of his cigarette. 

“Mick, man, I know you’re trying your best, but something’s gotta give,” he exhaled smoke to the side before glancing up at Mickey. He took the other man’s interest in his stout as permission to continue. “You’ve been seeing the doctor, and that’s great, but she’s once a week, and he started showing symptoms a month ago. This isn’t just a down swing, it’s an honest to god depressive episode.”

“So?”

“So, this isn’t something you can do by yourself anymore—”

“Says you,” Mickey snorted, looking over at Ian. 

“Mickey, come on.” Lip gestured with his cigarette, looking almost sorry that he had to say this to him. “I’m trying to help you, and him, and all of us. I’m just saying that we need to think about getting him full time care.”

“I care. Full time, all the time. You think I stop caring about him?” Mickey was so defensive he was almost growling, unadulterated rage spewing from his mouth. “I want him. I want him sick, I want him healthy, I want him in my life, in my house.”

Lip stared at Mickey and didn’t respond for a few seconds. He nodded, finished his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray next to him. Mickey’s eyes glanced off his tense jaw, saw the look in his eyes that he had often observed in Ian’s. It was defiant, stubborn, something that said to Mickey that Lip wouldn't hesitate to take matters into his own hands.

Gallaghers always had a knack for giving away their hand.

Micky slammed a hand down on the bar, causing Lip and the rest of the Gallaghers to look over at them as he leaned over the counter, his aggression coming off him in waves. 

“You’re not taking him to the looney bin, fuckwad. He stays with us.”

“You know what, asshole?” Lip stood up, finished his beer, took a step away from the bar, “in the end, it may not be up to you.”

Mickey glared at Lip as he walked over to his family. He swallowed and looked down, frowning, a little red in the face. The man a few seats down snorted and Mickey snapped, “the fuck you looking at, shithead?”

“Whoa, okay. Easy,” Kevin said bracingly, walking up behind Mickey and putting his hands on the shorter man’s shoulders. “Why don’t you take a lap, huh, Champ? Check in with the girls?”

Yanking his shoulders away from Kevin, Mickey walked around the bar, shot another look at the Gallaghers and went upstairs, fuming. If he knew anything about Lip, he knew that the man would go to any lengths to protect his family. If Lip thought that he was endangering Ian, or not providing for him, he’d take extreme steps to remove Ian from the Milkovich household. 

After a few minutes of talking to the girls, who really didn’t need his help too much anyway, he went downstairs, relieved to see that Ian was the last Gallagher left in the booth. He walked over and sat in front of the redhead, watching him with his eyebrows up. 

“Doin’ alright, sparky?”

Ian looked up at him and nodded, but didn’t respond.

“Liked having your family visit, huh.” Mickey frowned a little, his jaw tensing as he glanced over the stairway that led to the girls upstairs. He had been ignoring his own little family in favor of Ian. Gene and Svetlana had been absent for longer periods of time, and his contact had been reduced to the occasional visits to the house for money. Just how he wanted his child growing up.

He took a deep breath, running a hand over his face. 

“Yo, Ian.” His voice was muffled as he spoke, his eyes closed. He heard Ian shift and then looked over his hands at the redhead. “You happy, man?”

Ian didn’t respond but looked down at the table, reaching over to scrape at the crud that had built up in a corner of the booth. He shrugged and Mickey kicked at his foot, watching him.

“I know, like, not happy. But you okay? I mean...” Mickey gestured a little helplessly, obviously exasperated and failing to communicate well. “I know, not happy.”

Ian didn’t move.

“Just, alright.” Mickay swallowed, putting his hands on the table, grounding himself. “With me. You’re okay being with me.”

“I can leave, if that’s what you want.”

“No!” Mickey lurched forward, grabbing Ian’s light down coat. “No, that’s not what I want.”

Ian blinked at him, looked down again, “What do you want?”

“You! You, all I want...” Mickey stood up, his thighs knocking against the table as he put his hand on Ian’s chin, forcing his face upwards. He swallowed, staring into Ian’s dulled eyes, almost startled into looking away. 

“I’m not askin’ nothin’ from you, Ian,” Mickey said fiercely, “I’m just...I want to take care of you.”

He stepped out of the booth, aware that more than Ian’s eyes were on him. He glared around and most men returned to their beers. It took him a second to realize that Svetlana and Yev were there, the baby in the small hand held carrier that one of the other Milkovitch boys had bought for her at the wedding/baby shower. Swallowing, he glanced at Ian, who nodded, and then walked over to his wife, spreading his arms.  
“What are you doing here?”

“You can’t ignore us for sick boyfriend forever, Mickey,” she said, her accent thick. She held up the small carrier, showing a swaddled and sleeping baby inside, and put him on the bar as she sat down on one of the stools.. 

Mickey blinked, watching a hand peek out, and he swallowed as he glanced back up at Lana. 

“He needs me.”

“He has family, you have yours.”

“It’s not like that, Lana.”

“What’s it like then Mickey?” She asked, her eyes flashing as she regarded Mickey with something similar to disgust or disappointment. “I cannot raise child without you. I cannot raise son without his father, and I need help!”

Mickey’s eyes were wide as he glanced from Svetlana’s face down to the carrier, where the hand was clenching and unclenching on top of blankets. He shook his head and took a deep breath, looking over at Ian before turning back to his wife. He nodded, looking down.

“I need more time.”

“I don’t have any.” Svetlana’s voice never wavered from steady, never dipped into pleading. 

“One week.”

“One week will change things?”

Mickey shook his head, looking up at her, eyebrows up, “it could. It’s what I’m asking for.”

Svetlana looked at Yevgeny and nodded, glancing back up at her husband. 

“We’re moving back in today. But we will keep to ourselves.”

Mickey swallowed, eyebrows up.

“I do this for you, because I see you love him.” Svetlana continued, her eyes not looking away from Mickey’s. “But you have obligation to me, to him. Not just to Ian.”

He nodded, pushing his hand through his hair, taking a deep breath and blinking.

“Have a good day,” she said, standing up, picking up the carrier. Mickey’s eyes dropped to the covered baby, and as she left he didn’t respond. He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair before he turned back to Ian, walking over and sitting down.

He didn’t say anything, but he knew that the line of his mouth would be tightly drawn across his face. Mickey was frowning at the hands in his lap, clenching and unclenching them as he struggled to control his anger. He felt fingers on his face and jerked upwards, staring, wide-eyed, at Ian, who was leaning over the booth.

“Cheer up, buttercup,” Ian said, smiling a little, leaning over to kiss the tip of Mickey’s nose. “Can’t have two of us looking as bad as I feel.”

“Asshole.”

“Mhmm,” Ian agreed, sitting back, chin up. 

Glancing up at him, Mickey swallowed and then looked away, “Lip wants to take you away.”

“Where?”

“Arkham, basically.”

“Without you?”

Mickey nodded, watching the bar’s counter.

“I won’t go.”

Mickey swallowed, remembering Lana and his son (his son?) as they left.

“It may not be up to you.”


End file.
